Doctor's Orders
by IntrovertedPuff
Summary: A fluffy short Johnlock fic where Sherlock gets sick with a nasty cold and John must look after him. But Sherlock is not a very willing patient. Warning! Major Cuteness and one suggestive scene!


**Authors note: Hey there! This is a fluffy one shot in which the great Sherlock Holmes gets a nasty cold and it's up to** **Watson to cheer him up and make him get better. I don't own the rights to this, and Johnlock haters better click away! **

I studied Sherlock suspiciously and with mild panic from over the rim of my piping hot cup of tea. He was doing nothing in particular, just sitting staring at a fly on the ceiling with his long slender fingers pressed together at the tips and mumbling to himself. There was nothing very unusual about that, Sherlock often was found staring aimlessly at ceilings, flies or no flies. But what was concerning was that every now and then he would lift his arm and use his sleeve to wipe his nose, just as a small child would. Never in my life had I seen Sherlock wipe his nose, and I didn't like it, not one little bit.

"Sherlock," I said. If he heard me from the depths of his mind palace he ignored my voice. Tempted to throw my scalding hot mug of tea at him, which surely would have produced the desired result, I contented myself to instead throw one of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. It hit his head of annoyingly perfect curls with a satisfying plunk.

"That is the third time you've interrupted me John, can't you tell I'm thinking? How am I ever supposed to solve this case if right when I reach to grasp the answer you haul me away from it with your idiotic jabber?" He gave me a glare.

"Hah!" I replied in triumph "I knew it!"

He picked up the biscuit and chucked it back at me with a great deal more force then I had originally thrown it "knew what?"

I took I mouthful of biscuit, it was a bit dusty now "You my dear Sherlock, are sick! Listen to yourself talk, you sound like a bullfrog! And your nose is running so much your sleeve is coated!"

Sherlock swiped at his nose and coughed "I am _not _sick John. The idea! Now leave me alone so I can think in peace." He seated himself once more and glaring at me proceeded to slap nicotine patches on his arm with a defiant air.

"Are you sure you don't want some tea? Better take some medicine too." I advised watching him.

"Shut up, John." He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his breast as he presumably made his way back to the depths of his mind palace.

With a shrug I turned back to my tea and newspaper, if the man wanted to stay stuffy and sore throated forever it was his doing.

I was deeply immersed in a very interesting article about a rabid sheep with pink wool, when Sherlock sat up suddenly and his eyes danced with impending excitement.

"John, I do believe I solved it. The answer is simple once you think about it; it was the daughter who killed the fellow. She was jealous about the money and fame and killed him with the hammer, and now she's hiding here in London and not in France at all! If we hurry we can catch her before she goes to the press. We must be off at once!"

It was a case I quite frankly was a little tired of and the weather was so abominable I was horrified at the thought of leaving my warm chair and tea to go out in the drenching rain and cold.

"Oh really, how err, interesting. I never would have guessed it, but you can't mean to go out in your state you'll get twice as worse a cold. As your doctor I absolutely forbid it." I glanced around me for an excuse "err; besides I have a girl coming over."

Sherlock gave me a look that said he knew I was lying "really John a girl? I'm afraid that is quite pressing, but surely people's lives are more important than a shag."

"Don't be coarse Sherlock! Besides you can't go in your condition, I said I forbid it!" I protested.

He gave me a wicked grin "and have I stay here listening to the wet sound of you snogging? No, no, you stay here if you wish. But I certainly am going!" He didn't even bother to put on his scarf which annoyed me greatly; he would freeze to death in this rain. He nearly forgot his coat as well but I seized him by the wrist just as he opened the door and forced it on him despite his protests.

I slapped an umbrella in his hand "keep it open, and for god's sake wear boots! If you come home a drown rat I'll be extremely put out."

He pouted "Umbrellas are terrible, they're too obvious and in the open. Not to mention impractical in the wind. And why on earth did you give me this one, where's the black one?"

I glanced at the umbrella which happened to be a bright horrid green with leering yellow smiley faces "I don't know what you mean. Here turn up your collar; water drips down the neck are enough to put anyone off a case." I did it for him, and our faces were quite near each other. I became conscious of my heart beat and wondered if his was beating the same. I cleared my throat and stepped back.

"If you're quite done fussing I'll say goodbye." Sherlock prompted irritably, ready to be off and wriggling with excitement like a puppy.

"Yes, be back before eleven. You need sleep with that cold of yours, doctor's orders." I was tempted to give him a peck, but refrained just in time.

He straightened his collar with a twitch because apparently I hadn't done it well enough and flourished his umbrella "I'll be back at ten fifty nine and not a minute after. Goodbye my dear Watson."

I watched out the window as he made his way down the streets of London, the umbrella cast aside as soon as he thought I wasn't looking. He'd be the death of me yet.

He did not show up at ten fifty nine or eleven but two in the morning _very _wet and grinning like a maniac. Evidently the case had been successfully resolved, not that I much cared being incredibly tired and annoyed at being woken at such an early hour. He went straight to bed after telling me the news and when I rose at eight he was still sleeping.

He slept until noon and when he woke he called to me in a very groggy and weak voice "Waaadson!"

He was lying back against his pillows coughing with watery eyes, a high fever, and a completely plugged up nose "Wadson I beel derrible!" He complained "I ban barely move!"

I laughed "I told you not to go out in that weather with your cold. But cheer up, I'll make you some nice tea and take your temperature."

The tea he drank with enthusiasm, but when I pulled out the thermometer he kicked up his heels "no Wadson, I'b not a little kid."

"Exactly," I said "so open your mouth or I swear to God I'll stuff this down your throat."

"No! I'b not sick!" He kept turning his head away from my efforts until I grabbed a chunk of his hair.

"I'm going to take your temperature whether you like it or not and theirs is more than one way. Believe me you want this way." I threatened.

Sulkily he opened his mouth and allowed me to take it.

"A hundred and one." I tsked "That's not very good. Maybe you'd better sleep a little longer, does that sound nice?"

He nodded; already his eyelids were sliding shut. I crept out of the room and closed the door softly; sleep would be the best thing for him. I was a little concerned, he looked pretty sick and the fever was worrisome. But Sherlock was tough; he could get through a little cold surely.

Sherlock woke a few hours later and stalked into the living room yawning hugely, his hair rumbled. He was wearing boxers and nothing else; silently I stuffed him in to a big baggy sweater and wrapped him in a blanket on the couch.

"I bon't want all dat, I'm too hot!" he complained, but I forcefully put him in slippers too.

He flipped through the telly sipping more tea while I did the dishes; I caught him eyeing me evilly.

"What is it?" I demanded.

"I'b hungry" he answered. I groaned, he knew he had me wrapped around his finger now and he would exert his power gladly.

I opened a can of chicken noodle soup and heated it in the microwave after removing a jar of pig liver that I found there. When I had poured it into a bowl along with a piece of dry toast and brought it to the invalid he eyed it scornfully.

"Is that microwaved soup?" He demanded "You know there's nothing more I could despise. There's a box of cocoa puffs on the counter, I want some of those."

"Well you may not have them," I said crossly "not in your state. You really are acting like such a child Sherlock. Eat the soup, it's tasty and will make you well."

"I hate soup!" Sherlock crossed his arms.

"You most certainly do not hate soup; you just want to try me because you're in a foul mood. You ate it just the other day, I saw you. Now eat up."

"No!"

"Sherlock I'm warning you. Eat it, doctor's orders."

"I don't give a damn for doctor's orders, I hate soup!"

"Sherlock, _eat it." _

"_No!' _

"Fine then, that was your last chance." I surveyed him. Desperate times called for desperate measures I suppose. Without warning I flung myself on top of him and straddled him, firmly keeping his arms pinned with my knees. Holding the bowl above him I asked "eat it?"

He violently struggled and kept his mouth very tightly closed, though I noticed he was blushing furiously.

Setting the bowl aside I leaned down closer and pressing up against the long muscular body I pressed my lips against his.

His struggling ceased immediately and his body turned limp. He leaned into the kiss and opened his mouth. I felt as if I were flying over the very highest mountains, one hand in his sweet smelling hair and the other intertwining with his long clever fingers.

I pulled away, and he gazed up at me flustered with bright beautiful eyes, his body arching in protest, wanting more.

"John," he whispered. And at that moment I popped a large spoonful of soup into his mouth. He swallowed and glared at me protesting "that was hardly fair!"

I held out the bowl and gave him another spoonful. Gradually the bowl was emptied although I had to resort to several more snogs to do it. His medicine was fed the same way and then we settled on the sofa watching the telly together, his head on my lap.

"Wab a girl really ober last night?" he asked half asleep.

"Of course not," I said "you are far better to snog."

"Goob." He said satisfied and sat up stretching. Pressing me up against the couch he sat on top of me and pressed his mouth against mine exploring with his tongue. I felt myself arching to meet him.

Some twenty minutes later when we were both lying on the floor in a mess of blankets panting and exhausted, Sherlock asleep again and I nearly so as well, both of us now in desperate need of showers. Just as I was drifting of I muttered "Oh Crickey! Now I'm bound to get the same cold."

**Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Please review and don't be afraid to tell me your thoughts!**


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